Santa barbara boxing club

box it out

Get the ultimate workout at State Street Boxing Club!

"Let’s work,” he calls out in the warehouse-looking facility full of intensely focused and noticeably chiseled men. He activates the large digital timer on the wall, and I stand there, frozen, watching the red numbers begin to countdown with authority. Something tells me I won’t be enjoying a casual hour dancing through a Zumba class.

Perhaps I should take you back a week or two to fill you in. Like many, I assume, feelings of nostalgia crept in as the year came to a close and I reminisced on 2015. While I’m always grateful and sometimes a little emotional, I’m even more so filled with a burning desire to totally conquer 2016. Maybe it’s the fresh start or the intrigue of the unknown, but without fail, I find my motivation level skyrocketing to 237%.

So, like most of the world on December 31st, I decide to channel this exciting sense of possibility and self-improvement and direct it toward the perfect New Year's resolution. I know what you may be thinking, "Surely it's a fitness goal," and for most years, you would have been right. However, as I've gotten older (and hopefully wiser), I've realized that New Year's resolutions can be so much more than vowing to keep a food journal or train for a marathon. I've begun to lean more toward attitude resolutions–ones that might challenge the way I think or act, like how to better handle being stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic or how to better encourage those around me. Yes, I know it might sound slightly less light-hearted than, "I'm going to learn Mandarin this year!" But I've found that these are the resolutions I am truly motivated to keep, and I always end up better for it.

With that being said, it’s safe to say that my attitude resolution for 2016 is what I shall blame for leaving me here like this, a fish-out-of-water in this boxing club warehouse, equipped with a doe-eyed Bambi look and not a clue in the world what is coming next. That’s right, my New Year’s resolution is to be unashamedly adventurous—because life is far too short to do any less.

So with my open mind and timid footsteps, I make my way to the back of the State Street Boxing Club facility to use the restroom to change and collect myself before this Tuesday night 5:15 p.m. boxing class.

As I pass the large sparring ring and the seasoned boxing class attendees warming up around it, I deeply regret this whole attitude resolution thing and wish I had gone with the Mandarin. I shut the door behind me, plop my bag full of athletic clothes down beside me and take a minute to examine what they’ve chosen as bathroom decor. There’s a bookshelf in the corner, and atop it, titles like “An Illustrated History of Boxing” and “Explosive Power and Strength.”

I hear the echo of gloves beating against a punching bag in the main room—at first slow and methodical but then faster and faster like a speedy whisk having its way with a bowl full of egg yolks. As if I wasn’t already intimidated enough, I stumble upon an old-school upright scale, the kind you remember from a middle school locker room, with a sticker posted across it warning me, “FEAR THIS.” I take the sticker’s warning seriously as I lace up my Nikes and, just before heading out, lock eyes with a life-size picture of Muhammad Ali. His clenched fist is headed right in my direction, as if he is in the middle of delivering the type of blow that would leave me KOed before class even begins.

State Street Boxing Club is turning out to be the perfect place to start my year of adventures.

I meet Josh Schneyer, the owner of the club; by the sheer number of decorative awards and trophies scattered around the gym from either him or his students, I can tell this isn’t his first rodeo. He tells me that he started boxing when he was 16 and began training seriously after moving to San Francisco at 19. He went on to fight for the Navy for four years, clocked in about 50 amateur fights, and then continued training thereafter. Fast forward 40 years with the sport, and the last 17 of them devoted to coaching, Josh has given Santa Barbara it’s own boxing joint.

He proceeds to wrap my hands, and my confidence starts to amp up as I feel a new energy pulse through my veins. He then leads me over to the floor-to-ceiling mirror in front of the row of punching bags and says, “Look directly at yourself in the mirror.” Okay, got it. “Now twist your hips but keep your feet planted.” Check. “Now I want you to slowly extend your right arm out while you rotate your hips to the left.” Great, no problems here. He’s clearly starting me in Boxing 101, and I'm not complaining one bit. It's essential, he explains, that one has the proper body stance, including hip and foot movements, before throwing any future punches. Future punches? I feel more empowered by the minute. After several rounds of this rhythmic twisting and coordinating arm extensions, Josh awards me with gloves and begins to rally the rest of the class to start working on techniques through shadow boxing and using the bags.

He calls out a variety of punch combos, and I can hear the class attacking their imaginary opponents with the confidence and expertise of experienced fighters. Jab. Uppercut. Left-hook. In between sets, I ask some of my neighbors how long they’ve been coming to State Street Boxing Club. Jab. Uppercut. Left-hook. They laugh, recalling their very first classes, and several of them answer with 10 to 15 years. I’m quite shocked but quickly remind myself that there’s a reason this place feels so authentic and tight-knit. Others step in and reassure me that newcomers, like myself, also call this place home. Either way, the variety interests me. Looking around to find furrowed brows and sporadic grunts, I realize that desire and dedication might be the only requirements to fit in with the bunch.

We then head into the portion of the class that I’d like to call the Rocky Balboa Training Montage. I secretly wish that I was wearing the famed gray hoodie and sweatpants, and that I got progressively stronger with every passing scene.

I’m attacking the speed bags with extra fervor (at least I imagine I am) to the epic beat of the Rocky Theme, the heroic horns documenting my ascent into boxing greatness. The montage continues as we form a single file line and run around the outskirt of the gym, jump rope with impressively fancy footwork, and quickly drop to the black rubber flooring for planks and push-ups. This is where I wish I had that little team in my corner to wipe the sweat from my brow, pump me up with an inspirational message and offer me hydration from a little water bottle that shoots water into the corner of my mouth, before pushing me back out into the middle of the ring. We may not be sparring for this particular class but I am definitely feeling like an audience is either cheering me on or taking wages on whether or not I'll make it another round. Finally, the montage and the class come to a close with almost endless rounds of crunches, and our cores shaking from exertion. I lie there, basking in either glory or defeat. Either way, I'm loving it.

With my eyes gazed toward the ceiling and in absolutely no rush to move, I finally notice I'm surrounded by a new batch of enthusiasts warming up for the next class. I watch them meticulously wrap their hands and eagerly bounce in place, like they can't wait a moment longer for their chance to float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. Although I'm blissfully spent, I can't help but get excited for the agenda in store for the following crew. This even larger group of men and women, clearly fresh off work or school, have already changed and are mentally prepped to collectively kick ass. And oh, they will.

I muster the strength to peel myself off the floor, gather my things and thank Josh for the truly immersive experience. Several of my classmates make a point to introduce themselves and officially welcome me to the boxing family. I’m shocked that I receive this warm invitation, especially since they saw my jump-roping skills firsthand. However, I accept it gladly.

We say our goodbyes, and I leave with my head held high in accomplishment and my calves sore from who knows what.

Will this count toward my New Year’s vow to embark on new adventures? You bet. Does that mean I’ll step into the center ring for sparring on Fridays? Give me several more Rocky Training montages, and I’m there.*